


drive my body into his like a crash test car

by hellhoundtheory



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Bottom Steve, Bottom Steve Rogers, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundtheory/pseuds/hellhoundtheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I wanted to take him home</i><br/>and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his<br/>like a crash test car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drive my body into his like a crash test car

**Author's Note:**

> Title/Summary from Richard Siken's "Little Beast."  
> Just so you know the trigger warnings ahead of time. They are kinda spoiler-y, though, so if you want to be surprised and aren't easily triggered, skip 'em. 
> 
> HERE WE GO, TRIGGERS:  
> Extremely dubious consent due to sex pollen (liquid?)  
> Lots of blood (blood and spit as lube, blood in mouths, etc)  
> Injured characters injuring each other further  
> Really rough sex  
> Knifeplay  
> Mentions of rape

The fight is going poorly. Steve only has a reprieve to assess his injuries because he’s hidden in a damn supply closet, trying his hardest to breathe silently when he’s the closest he’s felt to an asthma attack since before Erskine’s serum. His side hurts like hell, leading him to the conclusion that he has at least one or two broken ribs on his right side. There’s blood in his hair, still wet. That’s not his, however, since he had butted the back of his head into his opponent’s nose, causing a fount of blood that forced off that ever-present black mask for a moment. Not that he’d seen the man’s face; Steve had kicked back the other man’s knee with a satisfying crack and ran without so much as a glance back.

Dizzy in pain as he was from many more wounds than his ribs, he had run in the opposite direction of the exit. Which had led to him hiding in the closet like a coward, hoping this leather clad “Winter Soldier” would move on so that he could run and get out of there, letting SHIELD at the nearly empty Hydra base to get whatever information they had wanted from it.

Since SHIELD had found out about Hydra’s existence, Steve and Natasha had been taking out bases left and right. But it was just him this time, and he was outmatched. 

Steve hears footsteps outside the door and plasters himself to the far wall—the only one not lined with shelves of mysterious glass bottles filled with liquids of various colors and viscosities. The steps are not hasty or even normally paced; the soldier takes each step as if he has all the time in the world. 

As far as Steve knows, he does. The footsteps approach the door. He can see the shadow from the crack under the door. The steps cease for the moment. The shadow remains.

Then, what feels like minutes later, the shadow shifts and disappears, the steps resuming, just as calm and painfully slow. 

It takes him three counts of sixty to let himself relax and breathe normally, shaking out the aches in his muscles from staying still for those tense moments. Continuing with caution, he waits another three minutes before even taking a step.

The moment his foot touches down for the second step, a metal hand punches a hole right through the door, pulling him by his uniform front, flush to the heavy door where he hits his head against the wood, hard, his vision going black for a moment. The Soldier’s arm lets him go and he falls unceremoniously to the ground, unable to hold himself up. His head spins from the blow as he tries to pull himself together.  
The door opens and closes and Steve hears the Soldier breathing, sees the heavy combat boots planted on either side of his sprawled form and thinks: _I’m done for._

“Get up,” A heavily accented voice says in the dark of the supply closet. Steve, tired as his body is, was never one to resist a challenge. Before he can even think, he’s surging up, leg swiping at the knee he already injured—but the move is anticipated and he’s thrown against one of the shelves with the vicious force of that metal arm. One of the many glass bottles breaks on the floor, and he’s barely conscious after another blow to the head, but still aware enough to grasp one of the shards of glass and come up swinging. Even in the dark he can see that he’s sliced his opponent’s cheek, but the blood sliding down his own hands tells him that the glass has dug into his palm—perhaps more of a detriment than a superficial cut on the Soldier’s cheek.

With little other thought, he discards the makeshift weapon, the contents of the bottle the last thing on his mind as a hand clasps around his throat and pushes him up against the bare wall, holding his entire body weight up: with his flesh hand, Steve realizes from the hot, clammy skin against his. 

He can make out full lips and familiar blue eyes—feral with the contrast of blood dried in rivulets down the nose and mouth of his assailant, almost like a primitive war-paint replica of the black mask left behind in the maze of the Hydra complex’s hallways.

Even with the black paint smudging those eyes, they stand out in the dark, and the only word that comes to Steve’s mind is: _Beautiful._

He’s dropped only to be crowded against the wall, the hard planes of the Soldier’s body fitting against his, and their faces close, noses practically touching, and breath mingling in the space between them.  
And Steve should be using this to his advantage, really, but the musky, dark smell of the Soldier is heady in his lungs and those eyes, those lips, keep luring him in, clouding his mind with want.

He brings his hands up, as if thinking about fighting back would will him to do so when all he wanted to do was rut up against that hard-muscled thigh that had slipped between his own. That futile hand movement earns him a punch in the jaw and his hands being trapped between the fingers of that metal fist, pinned up above his head—and Steve is gasping and fairly certain his pupils are blown so wide that they would eclipse the color in his eyes. 

The Soldier’s eyes are hooded, flashing down to Steve’s mouth when Steve licks his split lip, relishing the metallic taste of blood and the salt of sweat and wondering if the Soldier would taste like this, or if he would taste like he smelled, like leather and sweat and something distinctly his own that was achingly familiar. 

Steve doesn’t know where his arousal came from. He shifts against the thickness of that leather-clad thigh and can’t stifle the little moan that breaks from behind his lips. 

The Soldier’s gaze turns curious, and he experimentally grinds his thigh up into Steve’s hardness, causing Steve to keen helplessly, unable to stop himself, not even embarrassed as that curiosity turns heated. They slot together even closer, two sides of the same coin, the respective weapons of SHIELD and Hydra, the symbol and the ghost, and Steve can feel that the Winter Soldier is just as hard as he is, pressed insistently against the seam of his pants and Steve’s hip. So he decides to go for broke, surging up to those bloodied lips, capturing them with his own and quickly opening to turn the kiss dirty, unable to resist fucking his tongue into that wet heat.

He ruts his hips against the Soldier’s thigh, desperately seeking friction as the Soldier bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood—and Steve doesn’t even know how, but the guttural grunt the Soldier lets out when Steve bites him back makes him even harder.

He swears and tugs at the hand closed over his wrists, but the iron grip doesn’t let up, even as his uniform is tugged away from his body, the pants ripped in impatience, leaving his lower half exposed, dick poised upwards and dripping precome eagerly. 

The Soldier frees his own erection, not even touching Steve’s, and Steve’s mouth waters just looking at the flushed member. He’s never wanted so desperately to be on his knees for another man, the same man who was just trying to kill him, whose metal arm was holding Steve up by his wrists. 

That same man is biting at Steve’s neck—not a love bite, but rather like an animal going for the jugular—and the shudder that runs through his body is not fear but longing—need so strong it takes his breath away and leaves him writhing in the cool air of the storage closet, trying to wrap his legs around the Soldier’s hips.

He finally succeeds and begins to thrust his hips against the Soldier’s, trying to align their sweat-slick bodies in a way that would get them both off, feeling filthy and depraved and unashamed of it as he thinks of the communicator in his ear.

Which is when he feels a finger probing at his hole, and it’s all he can do to groan into the Soldier’s mouth as their lips smash together and the crook of a finger leaves him shaking and panting with need. Despite being tight, almost too tight, around that digit, part of him feels empty, eyes traveling down to the Soldier’s cock and wondering how it would feel inside him.

He doesn’t have to wonder for long. A cool, stinging heat travels in a thin line along a vein in his thigh, flesh hand dropping the knife and slicking itself in the crimson that follows. Then he’s being finger-fucked mercilessly, just on this side of painful as sweat builds at the small of his back and he moans into an open, sloppy kiss, dick curling up towards his stomach, unbearably hard and barely getting friction.

It takes far too long for spit and blood to coat the Soldier’s member, and Steve’s ass is open and exposed, dripping red and empty, clenching around nothing in anticipation. But finally he feels a blunt warmth against his hole and the pressure and anticipation is too good, for just that moment, until he’s filled in one swift motion.

Of course it hurts just as much as it feels good, the pain not easing but increasing the desire that had been heating his belly and sending his breath scattering into moans. The smell of blood in the air is almost as overwhelming as the shock to his senses of being breached by the Soldier’s cock. And as soon as he’s filled, it doesn’t stop, hard thrusts sending spikes of pleasure-pain against his prostate and singing through his nerves.

The first time his hands are released in too long they’re lunging to wrap around the Soldier’s neck so that he can steal another of those white-hot kisses and pull himself closer. He digs blunt nails into the back of the Soldier’s neck and the answering groan makes him bold.

With the strength of his thighs wrapped around those strong hips, he rolls his own only to have his shoulders pinned to the wall, almost like a punishment.

Undiscouraged, he circles his hips, letting out his own breathy moan as the blunt tip of the Soldier’s cock stutters over his prostate, simultaneous with a wrecked little sound that makes Steve think that he didn’t have to fight HYDRA’s weapon to bring him down to his level.

Thinking back to his own position in this coupling, however, Steve isn’t sure who’s playing who. And he’s too damn distracted to think of much past warm lips slowing down against his with the pace of the thrusts, what was once animal and desperate turning lazy and drawn-out. This was more like the Soldier’s fighting style, and Steve feels the knife’s cool edge flush to his throat the moment the thought crosses his mind.

_Shit._

But the rhythm of their hips doesn’t stop and the Soldier’s eyes flash across his lips in the dim light and surge forward again to meet Steve’s. The blade against his taut throat keeps him from moving much, every hard thrust pressing the edge just a little closer than comfort and sending a spike of panic through his heart that keeps him aware and makes the pleasure rolling through his body just that more potent.  
He’s almost disappointed when the blade leaves his throat, but then the flat of it is pressed against his dick and he’s coming in an instant, so hard it leaves him breathless, like the Soldier had flipped a switch. His body slumps against the wall, but the Soldier holds him up, fucking Steve through his own orgasm, which spills hot inside him even as Steve’s legs fall to the ground and the Soldier’s softening cock slips out of him.

There’s liquid dripping down his legs, looking pink in a mix of spit, semen, and blood that he stares down at in shock.

Steve would never just sleep with someone he was fighting like that.

The cloud of arousal that had overtaken his senses fades, leaving him feeling hollow and wretched. The Soldier stares him up and down as if he doesn’t quite understand what had happened himself, and as Steve’s eyes finally adjust to the dark, he realizes why the Soldier had seemed so familiar. Why he had wanted him so badly, even before whatever mutual insanity had taken over them.

“Bucky?”

The Winter Soldier—HYDRA’s weapon, the man who had just fucked him against a wall, the man who looks like the spitting image of his best friend—gets a panicked look behind his eyes and spits out something in Russian before running, not even bothering to open the closet door, simply crashing through it. 

Steve slumps down against the wall, head in his hands and eyes averted from the mess between his legs.  
The glint of something catches in the light from the hallway now spilling through the splintered door. It’s the remnants of the glass bottle that had broken in their struggle. The shard on the ground has a label, now soaked through and tainted with blood, but Steve can read it after a moment of puzzling, “Enemy Arousal Formula.”

It makes too much sense. Steve gathers up the scraps of his uniform, quickly gluing heavily ripped pieces together with stitch glue he kept on hand. He considers using it for the cut up his leg, but it’s already bleeding too sluggishly to be a problem for much longer. 

Once it looked less like he had gotten ravaged and more like he had lost a fight, very badly, and maybe been punched in the kidneys, he allowed himself to leave, tired and sore. Calling the extraction team, he makes his way out of the building, hoping that the stench of sex on him wasn’t as strong as it seemed to be. 

He refuses medical help when they get him in the chopper, saying that he can take care of it at home. Legally, the doctors can’t do anything, but they still fuss. Steve lets them clean his split lip and bandage his ribs, but nothing else.

When he gets back to his apartment, he can sense Natasha before he’s even turned the light on. He had barely even changed back at the SHIELD base, and now he regrets not doing a sink-sponge bath as another rivulet of blood-and-other-substances trickles between his legs.

With a wince, he tries to ignore it as he feels it dripping into his socks, “Good evening, Nat.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going head to head with the Winter Soldier?” 

“Nice to see you too. A ‘How are you, Steve?’ would be appreciated.” 

“Are you injured?”

“Yeah, broke a few ribs and hit my head. Nothing my healing rate won’t take care of in short order.” He doesn’t move, frozen in place and trying not to wince as his overstimulated body reminds him of every ache and pain he’d suffered that day.

“Really?” The arch of Natasha’s eyebrow is deadly, and Steve shrinks under her gaze.

His voice goes soft, “Yeah, m’fine.”

“Then why is there blood on your jeans?”

“Must’ve gotten a cut. Happens when you fight someone who’s almost as good with knives as you are.”

“He’s better than me. And you’re trying to avoid the point with flattery. That’s not an ‘I got cut’ place to have blood. Believe me,” Her eyes trail the pinkish stain that had spread between his legs.

“It’s fine, Nat. I don’t need a nurse, I just need a shower, which would be a lot easier without you blocking the path to the bathroom.”

“If you’re so fine, then come have a quick seat with me before your shower. It won’t take but a minute,” Natasha uses her coy voice, and Steve knows what she’s doing. Knows that she knows. But he doesn’t want to admit anything. Not with the seed of the man who looks like Bucky still cooling inside him and his own blood leaking out of his ass with it.

Natasha pats the seat next to him, and Steve knows how to do this. He’d gotten through so many times pretending he hadn’t been in a fight when he had, or that he wasn’t sick when he was. Trying to hide it from Bucky wasn’t easy. He’d practiced for this his whole life.

He takes a breath and walks as normally as he can, sitting down without even a wince. They sit like that for a long moment.

But then Natasha’s fingers are winding through his sweat-and-blood stained hair gently, just like his mother used to do after he’d get into a fight or when the coughing got so bad he couldn’t sleep. His face crumples and he brings his hands up to cover the sob that he knows is about to come out, too loud and painful to even let past his throat, so he closes his mouth even as he feels his face go red and his eyes sting. 

And, in the greatest show of kindness he’s received since getting to this time, Natasha doesn’t ask what’s wrong, simply holding him as the sobs wrack his body.

He has to get his breathing under control quickly, heaving air too painful to his ribs, but the tears flow for long enough that Natasha gets up and starts boiling water for tea, still a quiet and stolid presence, patiently waiting for his story.

“There was this stuff. I think it was something HYDRA developed to distract enemy forces I guess; caused uncontrollable... arousal. The Winter Soldier and I got hit with it when we were fighting. I didn’t really come to my senses until after it was over.”

“And the blood is...?”

“Mine, but not because... it was for, uhm...”

“I got it,” Natasha places a hand over his, and its warmth is small and strong but more than enough to make him smile for what felt like the first time in too long.

“There’s something else.”

“Don’t tell me you’re pregnant already. What will people say?” Her tone is dry and calm, not expecting a witty retort but trying to make him laugh.

“Funny,” Steve looks down, huffing out a little laugh, “No, it’s. The Winter Soldier. He looked like someone I knew. Before I was frozen.”

“Who?”

“Bucky Barnes. He was my best friend.” He thinks he’s pouring his heart out to an attentive Natasha, but one hand is on the kettle about to boil and the other is on her phone.

She lets out a little curse, “Shit.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That’s him alright.” She puts down the phone and slides it over to him as she pours the tea. 

It’s a picture of him and Bucky, something from one of the propaganda reels, the two of them laughing at something Steve can’t remember. Even though it’s in black and white he can still perfectly visualize the color of those eyes, but now they’re blended with hazy, bloodied images tainted with the blindness of arousal. 

“You’re sure?” Nat hands him the mug just as he asks the question, toying with her own teabag for a moment before answering.

“Yeah. I’m sure. How do you think I got so good with knives?”

“He trained you?”

“I don’t remember much. But that’s him. His face never changed. Not when I was a little girl. Not when I saw him again a few years ago.”

“You saw him?”

“I was protecting someone from an assassination attempt. He shot through me. Wasn’t the rendezvous I had expected from my mentor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No offense, I think I’d rather be shot than...” She gestures to him.

“It wasn’t... rape. Neither of us had any control. If anything Hydra’s the perpetrator. Not him.”

She puts her hand over his again, “I know, Steve, it’s just that I would rather him not recognize me through a sniper’s scope than with... something more intimate.”

“Yeah.” He sips at his tea unhappily.

“Are you going to do anything about this?”

“I’m going to take a shower. Then I’m going to find him.” He grunts as he stands up too close to the edge of the breakfast bar, hitting his side on the way up.

“You might want to let your ribs heal first,” She points out, before nonchalantly swinging herself onto his couch, still balancing her own steaming mug of tea, “I’ll take the couch.”

“You know there’s a guest bedroom, right?” Steve reminds her.

“Yep.”

As if she didn’t know the entire layout of the place including exit points, potential items to use for weapons, and where not to let herself get trapped in a fight.

“Night.”

“Goodnight, Steve. I’ll be using your cable subscription if you need anything.”

“You know I wouldn’t be able to survive without you, right?”

Even though she’s facing the TV and he can only see the back of her head, he can almost feel the smile spreading slowly across her face, “I know,” she agrees softly.


End file.
